


Count the Ways

by AnimeDomo



Category: Free!
Genre: College, Established Relationship, Haru being Haru, M/M, Post-Free! Eternal Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5022409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnimeDomo/pseuds/AnimeDomo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: "Ten Things Haruka Nanase Hates About Makoto Tachibana (not really)."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Count the Ways

**Author's Note:**

> It's 1am. I haven't written my synthesis for cls1600 yet, I have a Japanese midterm Monday, and a portfolio for my research is due this week but I spent the evening writing this and arguing with my roommates' boyfriend about Gatorade instead.
> 
> I mainly listened to "On My Mind" by Ellie Goulding.
> 
> Warnings: love and run-on sentences.

(1).  
     He hates how, on those chilly mornings late in the year when the heater in the apartment doesn't kick on and the sun glints sideways off the snow piles, he can feel Makoto just mere inches away under the fleece blanket they share and all he can do is wonder why – why is he over there? And he drifts closer without thinking, buries his faces into the bare neck of his childhood best friend and the world settles like pieces clicking into place, but it's really just Makoto's steady breathing, subtle movements of his shoulder blades under Haruka's loving hand. He hates how difficult that warmth, that steady movement and gentle presence makes it for him to answer the call of his alarm clock.

 

(2).  
     He hates the way Makoto greets him after practice. Hates the smile that he reserves for Haru only, the same look of pure adoration that graces his face when his eyes land on Haru at the end of the day and Haru has to pretend like his knees didn't just nearly give under him and like he's not contemplating the consequences of prying eyes and intimate moments, because he doesn't think he can wait till they return home when Makoto is looking at him like he is the universe and the stars and the air he breathes.

 

(3).  
     He hates how sometimes Makoto will just grab his face; never roughly – never, unless Haru is rasping for it. But gently, cradling his jaw between two warm palms, running his thumb across Haru's lower lip as he tilts the shorter boys face and slots their lips together in a soft press, a gentle caress he saves for when he looks at Haru and words fail him. He hates how perfectly they fit together. How nothing could ever possibly feel as right as the way the man in front of him pulls him close and ruins him in the kindest of ways.

 

(4).  
     He hates how soft Makoto's messy flop of hair actually is. How easily it glides between his fingers when Haru is seated in his lap and Makoto's chemistry textbook is shoved to the wayside to accommodate for the breath they share and the wandering hands that lead to red tallies marring sun-kissed skin and dark blue bruises that bloom like late spring petals. He hates how the colour looks against his own porcelain skin as he twists it between his fingers and watches Makoto's face curl into something darker that sets Haru's skin on fire.

 

(5).  
     He hates how, when Haru's hands are white-knuckled on Makoto's shoulders and his hair is matted to his forehead and cheeks and he just wants Makoto closer, _deeper_ – he still has the decency to lean down, to stare into Haru's eyes like it's their first time all over again, and whisper against Haru's swollen lips, swallowing the noise that escapes Haru's throat as the boy above him shifts; “ _Are you alright?_ ”

 

(6).  
     He hates the normalcy of returning home from practice. Crossing the threshold of the cheap apartment and finding Makoto already home, lounging across the couch as he scrutinizes the book in his hand because his classes end at 3pm on Thursdays and of course Haruka has his schedule memorized. Then Makoto will look up as the door swings shut behind the swimmer and he'll smile that damned smile again – “ _Welcome home, Haru._ ” – and there's nothing to stop him from tucking himself to the other boy's side, to bury his embarrassing adoration in the collar of Makoto's stupid plaid shirt and demanding Makoto's affections in that silent way Makoto always seems to understand.

 

(7).  
     He hates how Makoto never gets angry with him. Not when Haru spends too long in the bath and they have to run to catch their train. Not when Haru tilts his chin and averts his eyes, painfully silent because he can't articulate his feelings just yet. Not when Haru makes mackerel for dinner for the fourth time that week. Not when Makoto is trying to study but Haru pulls the book out of his hand and wraps himself around the taller boy instead because he had a long day and the only thing that can make it all feel worth it is Makoto's arms around him and the press of his glasses against Haru's hair as he just pulls him closer, always understanding and perfect and _Makoto_.

 

(8).  
     He hates the simplicity of the dynamic. He hates how Makoto has to do nothing but press his lips to Haru's forehead or run his hand through Haru's dark hair or mutter a sleepy “ _good morning_ ” when the sun peaks through their blinds and Haru's heart races like he's sixteen and falling in love with his best friend for the first time all over again.

 

(9).  
     He _really_ hates that dumb grin that Makoto gives him when he wanders into their bedroom and finds Haru already in bed wearing one of Makoto's shirts, curled up on his side watching cat videos on his phone. He'll never say anything, just because he's Makoto, but Haru's cheeks warm all the same.

 

(10).  
     He hates how, on their fourth anniversary, Makoto wakes him with a none-too-chaste kiss and attentive hands. Haru's still drowsy when Makoto leans his forehead against Haru's, the fondest look on his face as he twines their fingers together under the covers.  
     He hates how he brings one of Haru's hands to his face, pressing his lips against it as he whispers his love into the porcelain skin of his knuckles in the silence of the early morning.  
     He hates how he can't find it in him to be irritated in the early hour; how, when Haru pulls Makoto closer with his slender arms around the brunets broad shoulders, it feels like everything in the universe has led to this, this perfect boy laying in his arms staring at him like Haru is the answer to his every prayer. Haru thanks every deity he can think of and begins to count the ways he loves Makoto Tachibana.


End file.
